Jane Feather - The Diamond Slipper

"I kissed you just then," she corrected simply. "Because I needed to."

He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the thick black locks waving off his broad forehead. "Now, listen to me, Cordelia. It was all my fault. I should never have teased you the way I did in the gallery earlier. I didn't realize, God help me, that I was playing with fire. But you must now put all this nonsense about love behind you. You're going to be the wife of Prince Michael von Sachsen. That is your destiny. And you will only hurt yourself if you don't accept it."

Cordelia tucked a loosening ringlet behind her ear. "Are you married?"

"No." He answered the simple question without thought. "Do you have a mistress?"

"Do I what?" The change of tack left him momentarily speechless, until he realized that it wasn't a change of tack at all.

"A mistress?" she repeated, tucking away another ringlet. "Do you have one at present?"

"Get out of here, Cordelia, before I really lose my temper."

"I wonder what that would be like," she said mischievously, then backed away as he stepped toward her. "Oh dear, I have made you cross. Well, you needn't answer me now I'll ask you again when you're more used to the idea."

She blew him a kiss, turned, and moved away into the darkness. He stood watching the glimmer of her ivory gown wafting as if disembodied until even that had vanished and he was left only with the lingering scent of her.

Rain lashed the windowpane, and a chill draught set the flames in the hearth flickering. Prince Michael von Sachsen put down his pen and leaned toward the fire, holding out his hands to the warmth. April in Paris was not always a soft time of budding trees and nodding spring flowers; the wind and rain could be as raw as on any winter day.

He picked up his pen again and continued with his writing, covering the thick vellum page of the leatherbound book with a spidery sloping scrawl. At the end of the page, he laid down his pen. For twenty years he hadn't missed a daily entry: a scrupulously accurate accounting of his day, with every event, every significant thought punctiliously recorded.

He reread the entry before sanding the page and closing the book. He carried the journal over to an ironbound chest beneath the window. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the chest's brass padlock. He kept the chest locked even when he was in the room. It contained too many dangerous secrets. He lifted the heavy lid and inserted the journal at the end of a row of identical volumes, each one with the year embossed on the spines that faced upward. His hand drifted over the spines. His index finger hooked the top of the volume for 1765, flipping it up. He opened it, standing with his back to the fire. The page fell open to February 6. There was only one line on the page: At six o'clock this evening, Elvira paid for her faithlessness.

The prince closed the book and replaced it in the chest. The lid dropped with a thud and he turned the key in the padlock, dropping the key back into his pocket. A green log hissed in the grate, accentuating the silence of the room, indeed of the entire house at this dead hour of the night. He picked up his neglected glass of cognac and sipped, staring down into the spitting fire, before turning restlessly back to the secretaire where he'd been writing his journal.

He opened a drawer and took out the miniature in its mother-of-pearl frame. A young, smiling face looked out at him. Raven black ringlets framed her countenance-fresh skin, large, deep-set blue-gray eyes, a turned-up nose that gave her a rather impish look.

Lady Cordelia Brandenburg. Aged sixteen, goddaughter of an empress, niece of a duke. Impeccable lineage and a very pleasing countenance… but one that bore no resemblance to Elvira's. Cordelia was as dark as Elvira had been fair. His gaze lifted to the portrait above the mantel. Elvira, just after the birth of the twins. She reclined on a chaise longue, clad in a crimson velvet chamber robe. Her voluptuous bosom, even fuller after the birth, rose from a lace-edged bodice. A rich velvet fold caressed the curve of her hip. One hand rested negligently in her lap. Around her wrist glittered the charm bracelet that her husband had given her on the birth of the children. At first glance an observer would miss its curiosity, but the artist had caught the bracelet's intricate design, a ray of sunlight throwing it into sharp relief against the lush crimson lap. Elvira was smiling the smile Michael remembered so well, the one that drove him to madness. So defiant, so derisive. Even when she was terrified and he could feel her fear, she gave him that smile.

How many lovers had she had? With how many men had she betrayed him? Even now the question twisted in his soul like a fat maggot. Even now, when Elvira was no longer here to taunt him with her defiance.

He looked down again at the miniature on his palm. He had coveted Elvira in the early days, but he would never expose himself to such weakness again. He would take this woman because he needed an heir. And he needed a woman in his bed. He was not a man who enjoyed paying for his pleasures; it left a sour taste in his mouth. This fresh young woman would arouse his flagging energies, would bring him pleasure as well as the fruits of her loins. And she could occupy herself usefully with the twins. Leo was right that they needed more complex schooling than their governess could provide. The prince had little interest in them himself, but they needed to be educated in the duties of womanhood if they were to make satisfactory wives. He was already planning their betrothals. Four years old was not too soon to make the most advantageous connections for himself. They wouldn't marry for another nine or ten years, of course, but a wise man prepared early.

He hadn't mentioned these plans to their uncle as yet. But then, it wasn't really Leo's business, although he'd probably consider that it was. He was as devoted to the children as he had been to their mother. Her death had devastated him. He'd journeyed from Rome to Paris in less than a week when the news had reached him, and immediately after the funeral had left France for a twelvemonth. He would say nothing about what he'd done or where he'd been during that year of grief.

Michael took another sip of cognac. Leo's besotted attention to Elvira's children was a small price to pay for his continuing friendship. His brother-in-law was a very useful friend. He knew everyone at court, knew exactly which path of influence would be the quickest to achieve any particular goal, and he was a born diplomat. He was an amusing companion, a witty conversationalist, a superb card player, passionate huntsman, bruising rider.

And the perfect choice to take care of his friend's wedding details. Michael smiled to himself, remembering how delighted Leo had been at the prospect of the prince's remarriage. Not an ounce of resentment that his sister was to be replaced, just simple pleasure in the prospect of the twins having a mother, and an end to his friend's marital loneliness.

Yes, Leo Beaumont was a very splendid man… if a trifle gullible.

"Oh, Cordelia, I am so fatigued!" Toinette threw herself onto a chaise with a sigh. "I am so bored with listening to speeches, standing there like a dummy while they rattle on and on about protocol and precedent. And why do I have to play this silly game this afternoon?"

She leaped up again with an energy belying her complaint of fatigue. "Why do I have to announce in front of everyone that I renounce all claim to the throne of Austria? Isn't it obvious that I do? Besides, there's Joseph and Leopold and Ferdinand and Maximilian all in line before me."

Cordelia bit into a particularly juicy pear. "If you think this is tedious, Toinette, just wait until you get to France. The real wedding will be twice as pompous as all this palaver." She slurped at the juice before it could run down her chin.